"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah..."
Boskov threw a frenzied combination of punches on the sideline.
Pezzotti's eyelid twitched uncontrollably. This guy was even working his footwork into it now.
Was he really not planning to take up boxing?
The middle-aged assistant coach suspected that if he helped the Yugoslav take off his jacket now, he would reveal a body packed with lean, powerful muscle.
Football assistant coaches were still part of the athletic world. With fists moving that fast, it had to be related to physical strength, supported by formidable muscle.
Pezzotti swore that the next time they drank together, he would absolutely restrain himself and avoid getting drunk enough to argue with Boskov.
Fuck, his life was his own.
In the stands, Riva said with a smile, "So, wasn't today's match pretty interesting?"
"As long as the opponent isn't Milan."
Rivera said.
Watching Dejan play against Milan was too painful.
He could clearly have formed a perfect partnership with Van Basten, yet they had never become teammates.
"This goal reminds me of someone..." Riva said mysteriously.
But the next second, he and Rivera spoke in unison. "Zola!"
"Yes, Zola. Zola's free kicks have an outrageous curve too. That kid is pretty good," Riva said. "He's improved quickly alongside Maradona. He even scored from a free kick in the last round."
Every time he saw an outstanding young Italian player, he felt delighted.
"I hope he can reach Dejan's level," Rivera said with a smile.
Zola had only started playing in Serie A that summer. Before that, he had been playing for a third-tier side.
Though both were in their first year in Serie A, there was still quite a gap in the dominance they displayed—especially since Dejan was five years younger than Zola.
"Now that we've beaten Inter Milan